Reign of the Favored Women (37 page)

Christian priests were sent for to give the man the rites he had clung to in life. I heard one of them mutter: “That’s what comes of dealing with Turks and renegades. Even those who put on a show of protecting us, underneath, they are still not to be trusted.”

I was glad the master was not nearby then to hear that. It would have hurt him more than the death itself.

Before the priests arrived, however, the master’s chiauses climbed up and cut the body down. Seeing them there undoing what I had reason to believe comrades of theirs had only shortly before done made me draw the master to one side and tell him what I had seen and what I suspected.

“The Greek did not hang himself,” I said. “Where is the stool he kicked away? He couldn’t have done it otherwise.”

Finally I showed the master the slip of paper I had retrieved from the dead man’s chest before any other had seen and read it. It said, “Defiler of Muslim women. Condemned to Hell.”

Later Ghanzanfer Agha offered this information to me without prompting: “By Allah, I knew the last time I met the Greek with a message from Safiye that we were seen, but I never imagined it would end like this.” And even though the man was not a believer, Ghazanfer prayed, “Allah have mercy on his soul.”

“Men from the palace must have been here somewhere near—watching our gate,” I whispered to my master that night. “Waiting for him to arrive. They have done this, master, though for the love of Allah I know not why.”

But Sokolli Pasha only nodded at my passion and my words. Perhaps it was only the calmness of the prayer, but I had the feeling he had expected this all along.

Once more, after the death of the Greek, my master spilled his grief into another very long letter to Arab Pasha.

The only reply the messenger brought back from the island was a plain dark blue woolen cloak. The cloak was hard and black in spots and rent near each spot with a ragged slash. The governor of Cyprus had been wearing it when, the report said, he was set upon by brigands (“The island crawls with them since the war’s desolation”) and killed.

“His bodyguard?” My master managed to ask this in a tone as if the news were only the reports of the wheat harvest in Bulgaria.

“That’s good news, my lord Pasha.” The messenger forced a smile. “They all escaped by the favor of Allah.”

“All?” My master’s eyes wandered for one brief moment to his own bodyguard, the chiauses from the Porte, standing at attention on either side of him. He shook his head firmly against a thought. No, impossible. That would be too obvious.

“Without a scratch,” the messenger replied, losing his smile. “My lord, what’s the matter? I thought that bit of news would cheer you at least.”

“It should cheer me that one as dear to me as a son should be killed and his bodyguard of one hundred men should not raise a finger in his defense?”

“It...it does seem odd, doesn’t it?” the messenger admitted.

“Yes, indeed. ‘Odd.’” The master’s thoughts were elsewhere, so it was a moment before he concluded, “Thank you. That is all.”

* * *

Business in the harem kept my mind facing another direction. The latest-made widow returned, seven months gone with Arab Pasha’s child. She had to be eased from wife of governor back down to one slave among many again. That was a noisy, weepy affair, and when the child was born, there was more wailing. Not only did the mother weep over the fact that she’d borne no son to carry on the governor’s name, but the little girl was sickly and demanding, yet stubbornly refused to die. And everyone else moaned, too, as the stress told on us all.

On the other hand, there was Gul Ruh’s grief. It was quiet and terrible. She wouldn’t eat for nearly a week until we forced her. But the curtains of the harem closed over this grief, too, like skin over a wound. No scar remained to show the world where it had pierced so deeply. Only after that, Gul Ruh was never the same girl—or rather, young woman—again.

Just how changed she was I couldn’t imagine until some weeks later when Sokolli Pasha asked that I bring his daughter to him in the mabein. He had not seen her, I realized, since Feridun Bey’s disappearance, for he never gave himself cause to deal with women anymore. I could tell he was nervous, but so was she, with wide eyes and a heart one could almost see, fluttering in the color on her cheeks.

I gave no more thought to this dilemma, but laid my hand on her shoulder as we slowly walked to the mabein and I promised her once again I would see to it she never married anyone she didn’t want to.

“Hello, child,” Sokolli greeted her.

“Hello, Father.” Her head was down, her chin right on her chest. One could hardly hear her.

“Well, come here, child. I won’t bite.” He laughed at this nervously as if even he didn’t expect to be believed.

She went to him, but at a certain point, covered her face with her hands before him as if he were a total stranger, which, indeed, it might be said he was. Finally, he coaxed her on his knee. He was remembering the child: The young woman looked very awkward there, and rigid with nerves. But in that position he was able to work the hands away from her face, lift her chin, and look at her. I could see her face gave him quite a start.

If he had flattered himself when she was a child that there were shadows of his features in her face, in the immobility that had come to young adulthood, he could no longer do so. Was it so plain that even he could see exactly whose features those were, or was he merely struck by their dark, young beauty—the soft, full mouth, the large, black eyes, cheeks thin, but full of bloom? Did he think, perhaps, there was something attractive in the mother he must have overlooked all these years?

Sokolli Pasha had to look away for a moment to lay those thoughts aside. When his eyes returned, he came to the business at hand: “Do you understand, Daughter, that I mean only the best for your future happiness and care?”

“Yes, Father,” she murmured.

“Good, for I have decided not to put off giving you to a good man any longer. At first I thought to do so, in deference to your youth. But if you are still young, I grow older every day. I do not know how much longer Allah may allow me to remain as your father.”

“May He will you a hundred years, Father,” the girl prayed formulaically.

Sokolli Pasha nodded his thanks at the wish but continued, “Still, I feel I must no longer put off arrangements for your future care. You may not have heard, but on his deathbed, the Mufti Hamid, Allah favor him, spoke of marrying you to his youngest son. It was his dying wish. I should try to fulfill it. They came to me today, the Mufti’s older sons, and said they craved the pleasure of calling on me tomorrow night. I know they mean to set the bride-price and once it is set, we cannot in honor back out. You understand?”

She gave a quick nod.

“I only wanted to make certain the match was agreeable to you. I do want you to be happy. I can, you know, drive the price up so high they will be insulted and turn their backs on us forever. But they are a good family, a strong family, and unless the Sultan is a fool, many more Muftis may come from them. Even young Abd ar-Rahman I understand is already famous for his learning. Allah may will that he become the Sheikh al-Islam. But remember, I want you to be happy. You may speak your mind to me. Daughter, now.”

I could not believe my ears. She spoke lowly but no less plainly. “I will marry Abd ar-Rahman, Father, if that is your will.”

The child is intimidated, I thought angrily. I must speak for her. But it was neither the time nor the place. I had only one day before the brothers came. I must think of a plan quickly.

Sokolli Pasha gave me no time to think just then. He finished the interview with signs of pleasure but signs of relief as well, and dismissed Gul Ruh quickly. She ran off, no less relieved. But when I tried to follow, to reassure her of my support and that this marriage still might not be, the master held me back.

Perhaps now is my chance, I thought hopefully, but he did not ask my opinion. That much, he assumed, was settled. I had heard her agree to the match with my own ears, had I not?

Instead, Sokolli Pasha told me, “The Mufti said on his deathbed that I should spend more time with my harem. It would give me peace, he said. I see now it is true. You must help me in this, Abdullah. Tomorrow, there is the Divan and in the evening, the visit from the boy’s brothers. But then...”

He did not finish the sentence, yet it seemed to finish our conversation. So I said I would certainly help him in every way I could.

It occurred to me that simply coming to know his daughter better would put an end to the marriage plans.

But though Sokolli had turned away, I could tell I was not yet dismissed. When he turned again, I was startled beyond words to see tears in his eyes. The Grand Vizier? Whoever would have imagined him capable of tears?

“I know...”he said, struggling to swallow the grief. “I have known from the first she was not mine.”

My heart seemed to die. Did he also know my part in the matter? Was I now, after all these years, to finally be brought to justice?

“By Allah, there were times when I wished the inspiration of the Prophet had not spoken out against the disposal of unwanted girls. How easy, like the ancient Greeks, simply to take one’s shame, the proof of how little a man one is, out onto the hillside and expose it there.

“But I said then and I say it now, from the Sura of the Bee: ‘His judgments are faulty who allows dark shadows to settle on his face when a girl child is born.’ Even a girl child that is not one’s own. I have seen that it is so. For your part in her creation, Abdullah, I not only forgive but thank you.”

His generosity shamed, confused and made me grateful all at once.

“There is an old peasant song,” he continued without a pause for me to express my emotions in, which I don’t think I could have done anyway. “Sometimes the wisdom of the peasants comes close to competing with that of the Koran. The song says:

My own daughter

My face was shadowed when you were born.

I did not want your shame.

But years and Allah have taught me

The error and pride of my ways.

O daughter

Pretty, joyous child in the light of our family hearth.

Now I would rather die myself than ever lose you.

The bridegroom is my foe.

He cannot pay me enough.”

Again Sokolli Pasha fell silent, but again I understood we were not finished. This time the silence seemed endless. It was possible for me to take in the full import of what he had just confessed. I let the confession produce tears in my eyes as well. I let it bring to my mind all of the scenes I’d witnessed and abetted between Ferhad and my mistress.

Then there was still time, after those emotions, to go on to consider other related topics. I was in the midst of wondering just how, after such a confession, I could possibly break the man’s heart with news that his daughter—and she was his daughter, after all—could not really ever be happy obeying his plans for her. In the midst of this wondering, Sokolli Pasha, whose mind must also have wandered far and wide in that time, got up from his seat and began to pace. His steps soon brought him to my side, and then he laid a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“Do you remember, Abdullah,” he asked, “the day you first came here and stood in the courtyard for my approval?”

“Yes, master.” It was curious, but my mind had leaped to that same time in the past just before he spoke. No doubt it was the hand on my shoulder, for he had given me that very same touch then, and at no other time in between.

“And to think I left you on your own with my harem all those years—what was it? Four or more?” He laughed, then sobered. “Well, it’s easy to see my confidence could not have been better placed. All these years, you have served me well. I hope I may count on you to look out for my interests in years to come.”

He had dropped his hand, but now, as I gave some clumsy words of promise to do my best, it returned. His hand seemed to have become some tender creature, a dove or petal-like butterfly. It landed on my shoulder and, though I grew stiff with its presence, I did not dare to shrug it off for fear I might do it harm.

“When I was a boy,” Sokolli Pasha said, “growing up in the Enclosed School, I learned to find release in the love of men rather than the love of women. It took less time than climbing harem walls, caused less trouble, and although I may be biased in this, was less nerve-wracking while being more satisfying.

“I was steeling myself to change all that and marry Selim’s daughter—she was my first and is still my only woman—when I saw you. I saw you there in the courtyard. And suddenly, I was excited about being married. Many a time I came to the harem—to her, yes, but mostly to see you. I didn’t notice there was a lack of eunuchs in my household because you seemed more than enough for my needs...”

As he spoke, I became aware of a very strange sensation. In my parts I’d thought dead and gone for so many years, I felt a strange stirring. I had strolled through the bathhouses full of naked women and felt nothing. But no one had suggested the possibility of my enjoying the throes of love before—before this.

That was just my first reaction. It was the reverse of the old proverb: the flesh, indeed, was willing, but the spirit was weak. Twenty years among the Turks where such things were natural could not overcome my earlier years where the thought had turned my stomach rotten. Stammering, I tried to explain the dilemma to him.

“I know,” he stopped my self-torment with a word. “I have known you could not feel as I do ever since I learned about—about my wife and the other man. You took her part against mine, even in such a case. I have known since then you could not love me. And perhaps that hurt more than being a cuckold. Still, I will not force you—I will not even ask you, if you cannot. My dreams are happier this way.”

The force of his passion brought me, helpless, to my knees before him. I bowed before the greatness of his soul, all it bore, and the vast-ness of the lonely abyss through which he carried it. Even at this hour, when every friend in the world had been taken from him, he was a gentleman still, and perfect in honor. I bent over his hands and kissed them for their honor.